


Fits and Spurts

by finx



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Original Work, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 07:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11664315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finx/pseuds/finx
Summary: Assorted short fics and stories. If anything tickles your fancy, make some noise in the comments and I'll write more for it!





	1. Nat and Sharon Blow Things Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of CACW, Maria Hill calls up Sharon Carter and Natasha Romanoff and starts aiming them at Hydra targets throughout Europe, the ones she doesn't have any other way to get rid of. Inspired by [this gifset.](http://queensweasley.tumblr.com/post/144351296536/after-civil-war-someone-has-to-act-someone-has)

The GlobalMed facility did turn out to be an undercover Hydra operation, and as near Sharon could tell their bioweapon was some sort of performance-enhancing drug. “Always with the super-soldier steroids,” she muttered to herself as she placed the charges that would bring the whole complex crashing to the ground. “You’d think for once they’d come up with something new, but no, god forbid anyone ever have an original fucking idea.”

Sharon jogged down the empty hall to the next lab, not bothering to dodge the cameras. The security system was currently a mess of fried wires, and anyway Natasha was off somewhere wiping all the servers. Sharon found a pipe that looked like it might be a gas main and carefully wedged a bomb between it and the wall. “Stupid serum probably takes pixie dust and powdered unicorn hairs anyway,” she grumbled to the bomb as she made sure it was turned on. “They should just take regular steroids and invest in better security.”

She gave the bomb one last pat for good luck and made her way down the hall to the next room. She was down to only three bombs when Natasha’s voice spoke in her ear, slightly out of breath. “All done here. Meet you outside in five.”

Sharon put on an extra burst of speed and put the last few charges in place.

“You’re late,” Natasha said when Sharon met her on the far side of the employee parking lot. There was a dark splash of blood on her pants. Sharon grinned, almost teased her for being clumsy enough to stain her clothes, but the words got caught in her throat.

They were nearly friends, after three weeks of stakeout and undercover work and discussing intel and strategy over late-night pizzas. Nearly. All Sharon said was, “Run into trouble?”

“Couple of guards. Definitely Hydra – I let them see my face and they started spouting some philosophical crap about order and chaos.” She snuck a sidelong look at Sharon. “I shot them both in the head.”

She was clearly waiting for a reaction, but Sharon had no idea what it was. “Hm,” Sharon commented, and pulled out the detonator.

The bombs went off all at once with a thunderous boom. The walls shivered, frozen for one single slice of time; then the buildings fell in on themselves, a shuddering collapse like an implosion. Sharon watched critically, trying to tell if the underground levels had been thoroughly destroyed. “Think we got everything?” Natasha asked.

“Probably. The dust clouds look right, anyway.”

Natasha hummed in satisfaction. “I love the smell of TNT in the morning,” she said.

Sharon snorted. “Smells like victory.”


	2. A Bad Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone suggested that the captain of the Tantive IV, the ship that takes Leia on that diplomatic mission that gets so fatally sidetracked, was a relative of Bail Organa's. I was going to write about all the times he came over for lunch and got to know the little girl who was all fire and stubbornness, but instead there's this.

He promised Bail he’d get her home safe. When they left, Bail and Breha standing there on the landing pad with their daughter held tight and precious between them, he’d clapped a hand on his cousin’s shoulder and said, “She’ll be safe with us, Bail. Ain’t no kind of flying me and my boys haven't done.”

And that came dangerously close to things best left unsaid, to the types of flying he  _does_ get up to in the darkness of space, the kinds he can’t even whisper about, not when he’s planetside, where the Empire might hear. It came dangerously close to not being reassuring at all, really, and he was starting to regret saying it, but Bail and Breha were thanking him with a warm smile and letting their daughter go.

This was hardly Leia’s first diplomatic mission. There were no tears, no sorrow, just proud smiles as she walked onto the ship. But at the last minute she turned, frowning, then ran back down the ramp and hugged her parents tightly one more time. She said something to them, quiet and intense, and when they answered back he thought he saw the shape of  _We love you too._  

Some of the men laughed, but it was a fond sort of laughter and the captain didn’t bother glaring it into silence. “You forget how young she is,” one of the men said with a sigh. The captain didn’t comment on that, either, but the look on her face as she stepped back onto the ship was anything but young. It was lined with grief, heavy with loss, and when the captain, startled, put a hand on her arm to ask what was wrong, she turned to him with eyes as black as the void between the stars. He flinched away, the words dying on his lips.

Leia blinked, and shook her head like she was dislodging something, and smiled at him. “I don’t know,” she said, answering the question he hadn’t asked. The void in her eyes was gone, but her smile was strained. “Just a bad feeling. It’s probably nothing.”

She shrugged, and walked on into the belly of the ship. His hand fell from her shoulder. He looked back out, to where Bail and Breha were standing side by side on the landing pad. The ship’s door closed, and their faces vanished from his view.


	3. People Just Don't Stay Dead Like They Used To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Original work, written on a whim. I don't understand half of what's going on in here but it was fun to write.

“You wanted me dead, well now I’m fucking dead. Hope you saved the receipt.”

Trennan wrenched his broadsword out of the wall and left, not sparing a backward glance for the man lying behind him in a widening pool of his own blood. The night was cold and sharp against his skin, and he opened his mouth to taste it. He breathed it in, imagining that the cold of the glittering white stars high above him could burn through his veins, fill him with their icy calm.

He went to the middle of the empty street, rested his broadsword on his shoulder, and started walking. There wasn’t really anywhere for him to go, but ‘as far away from here as humanly possible’ seemed like a great place to start. The houses on either side of the street were quiet, dormant behind the cheery glow of their porchlights. Trennan wondered how many of their inhabitants knew about the warlock living in their midst. Did they whisper to each other about the man living in number 305? Did they call it The House With The Red Door, and warn their children not to go close? Or did they invite Michael to their block parties and barbeques, show them pictures of their children, try to set him up with their cousins? Did they think he was normal? Did they think he was harmless?

Trennan realized he’d come to a stop. His fingers were clenched so tight around the hilt of his sword that the leather grip was biting into his palm, and he was breathing hard.

He willed his fingers to loosen. He willed his legs to move, and set off down the street again. Then, experimentally, he willed himself to stop breathing.

After about a minute, his lungs started to burn. He pinched his nose and kept walking, mouth pressed into a thin line. After another minute his eyes were swimming with tears, but his legs kept moving at the same steady pace, and he still hadn’t taken a breath.

It turned out he could hold his breath for about five minutes before he finally broke down into gasping coughs. His steps never faltered, the whole time, and his sword didn’t slip from his grip. He thought the need to breathe might be psychosomatic.

His legs didn’t tire after three hours of walking, either. He knew it had been three hours, because when his phone rang in his pocket, shattering the silence of the endless empty highway and scaring him half to… well. When his phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket to stare at it like he’d forgotten technology existed, it read 3:08. He’d left Michael’s a little after midnight. A little after making sure the spell wouldn’t happen after all.

The phone also said ‘Olivia S.’ Trennan stared blankly at the name printed in neat black font on his screen. He stared at it until the phone stopped ringing, and then he jumped in surprise when it started ringing again, and swiped his finger along it to answer.

“Where the hell are you?” Olivia demanded before he’d even put the phone to his ear. Her voice was shrill and tinny through the phone, and he was pretty sure it was laced with pain as well as rage. “It has been _well_ over twenty-four hours, you asshole, and I am fed up with waiting in this grimy fucking hotel for you.”

“Olivia,” Trennan said, and his voice felt scratchy and unused, somehow, even though he’d been shouting at Michael only three hours ago. “Olivia, I’m sorry for leaving you there. You can come out now, I think. It should be safe now. You should be safe.”

“You _think?”_ Olivia screeched. Trennan winced and held the phone away from his ear. “Yeah well why don’t you go and make sure, huh, before putting my life at risk _again.”_

Trennan sighed. He didn’t think it would do much good to apologize about that, not if it hadn’t worked the first ten times, but it was worth a try. “I’m sorry about that,” he started. “It wasn’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, it wasn’t on purpose. Whatever. Look, I’ve had another nightmare. I can’t tell if this one’s real or not, but it was about you and Michael.”

Trennan’s heart sank down to his boots. “Olivia, I– Michael is–”

He couldn’t finish. Olivia must have heard something in his voice, because when she spoke again, it was almost a whisper. “He’s dead, isn’t he.”

Trennan breathed out a sigh, and was surprised to feel tears pricking his eyes. He hadn’t thought there were any tears left in him. “Yes,” he said, because it was true, one way or another. Even if he’d survived the stab wounds, the Kindly Ones would have come for Michael by now. There was no way he’d survived _them._

Olivia was silent. Trennan tried to think of something to say, something other than “I know you loved him” and “I’m sorry.” They’d both loved Michael, and he wasn’t really sure if he was sorry. Michael had killed him first, after all.

“I guess it was just a nightmare, then,” Olivia said at last. Her voice shook, but didn’t crack. “I dreamed he found you on an empty highway and you fought off a demon together.”

Trennan looked at the asphalt beneath his feet. He looked at the highway, stretching on ahead of him, vanishing over the crest of a hill a few miles away. Then he turned around and looked behind him, to where the highway stretched even further, surrounded by withering grass. In both directions, it was very decidedly empty.

“Did we win?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” Olivia said. “It wasn’t clear like most of my real dreams. I couldn’t see you properly, and Michael was—” she paused, took a sharp breath, cleared her throat—“Michael was sort of winking in and out of existence. The demon was a… one of those really big blue ones, the ones that look like horses with claws. You and Michael were shouting at each other, and you didn’t see it coming.”

“What were we saying?” Trennan asked distantly, through the fog of nervousness starting to crowd into his skull. He was scanning the horizon: it was grassy fields all around, probably cattle pastures, though up ahead the land got bumpy with small hills. The sky was wide and dark above him, spangled with stars, but the moon was nearly full. He could see for miles, even if everything he saw was tinged silver-white. He was definitely alone. Definitely.

“I don’t know,” Olivia snapped, “I was a little more preoccupied with the demon. What does it matter, anyway? It can’t be real if he’s—”

“Yeah,” Trennan said, “yeah, that makes sense, only tell me one more thing. Did I have my gun with me? When the demon showed up, did I start shooting?”

“No, you had this giant sword, probably because it _wasn’t a real dre—”_

“I’m standing in the middle of an empty highway,” Trennan interrupted. “I lost my gun, and I’m carrying a pretty big sword. I don’t see any demons, or Michael’s ghost careening across the plains to say hello, but if you have any tips on how to kill this hypothetical blue horse thing, I’d love to hear them.”

“Fuck,” Olivia said. “Right, uh, I didn’t see it die, but I’m pretty sure its weak spot is above, along the back of its neck. Or maybe at the base of its tail. Also the claws might be poisonous.”

“Great. Thanks, Olivia,” Trennan said, knowing as he did that he sounded entirely too calm. He felt too calm, like he was floating above everything. “I’m going to hang up now and get to some high ground. I’ll call you back in an hour if nothing happens. Oh, also, that bastard with the snakes is dead.” 

“You killed him?”

“Yeah, a couple hours ago, him and at least four of his followers. The rest of them ran away. I figure they’re halfway across the country by now. If you want to get out of the hotel and go somewhere less awful, it’s not too big a risk. Up to you, really. They don’t need you anymore, so you’re probably safe.”

“That’s real reassuring, Trennan, thanks,” Olivia bit out. “I’ll just go home and live in fear for the rest of my life then, sounds peachy.”

“Sorry,” Trennan said awkwardly. “If I find any of them, I promise I’ll kill them.”

“Wow. You sure are a gentleman. Fuck off, Trennan. And try not to get yourself killed.” She hung up in his face.

“Too late,” Trennan said after a moment, and sighed. He pocketed the phone and set out for the hill up ahead. Olivia’s dreams didn’t always come true, but they were pretty reliable most of the time. If he was going to have to fight off a demon, he’d take any advantage he could get, even if it was the questionable relief of marginally higher ground.

He still felt like he was floating. It was getting a bit weird. Objectively, he knew this was an overreaction – sure, the last time he’d fought off a demon only Michael’s magic and Olivia’s quick thinking had kept him from a shallow grave, but this didn’t feel like a panic attack. It felt… it felt like being so tired that nothing felt quite real anymore. Maybe it was a side effect of being dead.

Maybe it was a side effect of stabbing his boyfriend in the chest.

Trennan got to the top of the hill and surveyed his new position. He could still see for miles, but not actually much further than before. It wasn’t exactly a big hill. The road, as it stretched on in front of him, wound around and over several more knobbly hills, each one about as unimpressive as this one. Eventually the terrain sloped up into mountains, but they were dark shapes on the horizon, plenty far away.

There wasn’t anything resembling human habitation as far as the eye could see. He’d passed a town a couple hours ago, back the way he came, and it should be a yellow glow of street lights in the darkness, but it must have been hidden by a dip in the land or a stand of trees or something, because there was nothing but dark, flat fields rolling out behind him on either side of the highway.

Trennan sighed, and wondered if it was even worth waiting here. This tiny hill barely counted as high ground, and it wasn’t like Olivia’s dream couldn’t come true five months from now, when he was lying on a beach somewhere, finding out if dead people could tan, and had forgotten all about the blue horse demon that was supposed to hunt him down. 

A shiver ran down his spine, utterly unprompted. There was a soft whisper of sound behind him, like the whoosh of a door opening too fast. Trennan whipped around, sword held out in front of him, trying to look like he had the first clue how to actually wield it.

There was a sharp pop, and Michael appeared against the backdrop of stars, blinking into being from one instant to the next.

Michael crashed to the ground in a heap, legs tangled under him, glasses askew. He looked up at Trennan, eyes wide and frightened, and said, “They’re coming. Trennan, they’re coming. You have to run.”


	4. Qui-gon Finds the New Avatar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long ago, the four nations lived in harmony. Then, everything changed when the clones attacked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a series of interconnected stories about That Time The Avatar Cycle Got Really Screwed Up By All These Skywalkers, but I couldn't figure out an equivalent for the Death Star so instead it's just Qui-gon getting progressively angrier.

Avatar Yoda was not dead. Qui-gon was very nearly certain of that, but still he found himself wondering, as he watched the Earth Kingdom boy push the river aside to catch fish with his bare hands, whether the old master had passed away in the months since Qui-gon had left the Southern Air Temple on his quest, and somehow Qui-gon just hadn't felt it happen.

“The boy is eight years old,” Obi-wan said quietly at Qui-gon’s side. Qui-gon nodded – his apprentice was right. For this boy to be the new avatar, Yoda would have to have died eight years ago. So, clearly, the boy was not the avatar.

“His mother says he started earthbending when he was only three,” Obi-wan continued. “He could move boulders twice his size before he was six.”

The boy kneeling on the riverbank shoved at the air with both hands. Three cubic feet of water moved out of the way so quickly it was as if they’d evaporated. The boy lunged forward and grabbed a fish out of the hole in the river with both hands. He overbalanced and started falling head-first toward the water, but before Qui-gon even had a chance to move forward, the boy righted himself, in defiance of all the laws of gravity. 

“How did he do that, Master?” Obi-wan asked, staring in shock. Qui-gon stroked his beard. He didn't want to admit he had no idea.

The boy tossed the fish onto the ground and clapped his hands together. Only then did the river flow back into its proper course. The boy had kept the river from doing as it wished for a whole minute, and he’d done it while his hands were full of struggling fish.

“Obi-wan,” Qui-gon said slowly, “I do believe the bisons need more rest. We shall have to spend a few more days in this village.”

 

~~~

 

Avatar Yoda was not dead, but the boy was the new avatar. This, Qui-gon was absolutely certain of. How this had come to pass was not important; it had, the boy was here, and the boy had to be trained. There wasn’t really any point in wasting time, not with war creeping up on the horizon.

The council of elders did not agree. They frowned at the boy in confused displeasure and spoke of the regeneration cycle, of the laws of balance, of how things had always been. Qui-gon tried every way he could to convince them that it was more important to train him than to argue over him, but in the end they declared the boy an impossibility and dismissed him entirely. He would be returned to the Earth Kingdom, they said, where he could be trained in whatever way his own people saw fit.  _Where he can be someone else’s problem,_ they didn’t say.

Qui-gon bowed his head to hide the fury in his eyes. He shouldn’t be so surprised, he thought, not after all these years serving as an ambassador and enforcer for the avatar and his council. He knew what they were like. He shouldn’t be so shocked that the elders would rather believe in their comfortable status quo than face reality.

Qui-gon tamped down his anger, and didn’t look up until he was sure the fire in his eyes was veiled completely. “Avatar Yoda,” he said – begged. “I do not pretend to understand any of this. But the fact remains that young Anakin can bend both water and earth. Even if he is not the new avatar, he is no ordinary child. Surely this is exactly the sort of mystery the avatar should solve.”

Yoda gave Qui-gon a long, considering look. Then he leaned forward in his chair and gestured for the boy to come forward. The boy did, back stiff and steps short. Yoda reached out a wizened hand and touched a finger to the boy’s forehead.

There was a long moment of silence. Qui-gon didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Yoda sat back and shook his head. “An ambassador, the avatar is,” Yoda announced, “between the human and the spirit world. A spirit, this boy is not. An airbender, he is not. A place in this temple, he has not.”

Qui-gon grit his teeth. “You are mistaken, Avatar,” he said, harsher than he’d meant to be. “The boy has a place with me. I have already bought out his indenture. He is my responsibility.” He ought to be the  _council’s_ responsibility, but so be it. If Qui-gon had to travel to the four corners of the world to find this boy teachers, then he would. The new avatar would not be left to find his path alone.

 

~~~

 

Qui-gon left the temple just after dawn the next day, before any of the elders could find some task for him to be about. Technically he was still supposed to be touring the western coast of the Earth Kingdom, gathering information for a report on the increased terrorist activity there; if he went back to doing just that, no one would be able to say he was shirking his duty. He’d even delivered the information he did have, messily copied out as it had been on their flight from Taku.  _Not that they’re going to even read it,_ he thought blackly. He’d given his full report to the council before bringing Anakin before them, and they’d tutted in distress and talked in circles about how it was such a shame, such a mystery, that so many Earth Kingdom provinces were falling prey to raiders these days. Master Windu, at least, had agreed to send more scouts to assess the situation, but Qui-gon couldn’t help but feel it was a pointless gesture.

Obi-wan hadn’t questioned it when Qui-gon told him they were going back west. He didn’t even complain about the early departure time, beyond a single long-suffering sigh. Now he sat at the reins, pointing out landmarks in a groggy voice. The boy, standing at his side, was exclaiming in wonder and asking eager questions with all the lightning-quick chattiness of a winged lemur. He’d done the same thing for most of their flight to Taku, though he’d pestered the princess then instead of Obi-wan.

“We’re heading south, right?” Qui-gon heard the boy ask.

“Yes,” Obi-wan said, “south and then west, once we're out of the mountains. We’re going to the west coast of the Earth Kingdom.”

“Isn’t that where Princess Amidala is from?” the boy asked. “Are we going to see her again?”

Obi-wan shook his head and yawned. “Probably not. She's in Taku, trying to get the governor’s help with the raiders. We’re heading further south than that."

“We might as well stop by Taku,” Qui-gon said. Obi-wan glanced over his shoulder and the boy jumped in surprise. They’d probably assumed Qui-gon was asleep, lying against the saddle-packs as he was. “The governor may know more about these raids. And I’d like to see how he rules on the matter of Naboo.”

“Alright, Master,” Obi-wan said sleepily, turning back to the horizon. Later, when they were out of the mountains, he would pull out a compass and a map, and point them in the right direction. For now, there was only one path through the mountain range that didn’t require uncomfortably high flying for the bison.

The boy was still watching Qui-gon, wariness and curiosity warring in his expression. With an effort, Qui-gon pushed away his frustrations with the council and smiled in what he hoped was an inviting sort of way. “What is it, Anakin?”

“Nothing, Master,” the boy said hurriedly, ducking his head. In another moment he peeked out from under his bangs, though. Qui-gon raised his eyebrows expectantly. The boy swung his arms awkwardly at his side. “I was just—just wondering,” he said, “what you’re going to do with me. Since the monks didn’t want me, I mean. Master,” he added quickly.

Qui-gon was struck by the horrible realization that the boy was worried about being sold. Rage blossomed in his belly, at the awful system that allowed slavery to dress itself up in legal papers and call itself indenture, at the avatar for doing so little to work against it, at himself for not realizing that the boy would have spent all night worrying about being discarded like a broken tool.

Qui-gon clamped down hard on that rage, and forced the smile on his face to be as warm as the fucking sun. “We’re going to find you an earthbending master, Anakin. And you are going to get the education you deserve.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then he died.  
> 


	5. Stoat the Summoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Ten mythical creatures
> 
> original piece, meant to be part of a longer series that never got written

The sphinx was pouting. The gorgon and the basilisk had gotten into a staring contest. The griffin and the dragon were comparing hoards. The hydra had wrapped itself around one of the twelve thick stone pillars that held up the roof and was trying to strangle it. The mermaid was making eyes at the djinni, and the phoenix was molting onto the polished marble floor. Its feathers left charred pockmarks wherever they fell.

The cacophany filled the cramped summoning hall. Stoat could barely hear his own voice as he chanted the last incantation. His legs were wobbly with exhaustion as he paced around the last of the summoning circles, the candle in his hand dribbling hot wax all over his fingers. Just one more, he kept telling himself. Just one more.

Stoat reached the end of his incantation two steps early. His heart skipped a beat. He leapt forward, dragging out the last few syllables of the final word until his foot hit the blue dot that he’d started from. He slipped on something when he did – hydra drool, probably – and landed hard on his butt as the edges of the summoning circle shot up into fierce walls of brilliant white light.

Stoat held his breath. If the light turned red, it would mean the summoning had gone wrong, and anything could come through. Or, worse, Stoat would get sucked into the portal and be trapped forever in the void between worlds. His hand dug into his pocket and found the hollow stone there. The Dawn Queen hadn’t said what kind of talisman it was, but it was the only protection Stoat had. He clutched it tight.

The white light flickered, running through all the shades of iridescence, before settling on a soft, mossy green. Stoat let his head fall to the floor in relief. There was a sound of distant bells, signifying the summoning had worked, and the light slowly faded away.

Reluctantly, Stoat dragged himself to his feet. There was a unicorn in the center of the circle, gazing about uncertainly. The djinni was already floating over to say hello. Stoat looked around the crowded room. Ten creatures, under one roof, and he, Stoat, had brought them here. Maybe the Dawn Queen had been right to choose him after all.

He drew himself up and tried to look as imposing as possible, which, Stoat knew, was not very much. “Excuse me,” he said. The unicorn and the djinni glanced his way. “Excuse me!” Stoat shouted. It took a few tries before the room went silent. Several of the hydra’s heads were still chewing on the stone pillar, but at least the rest of them were turned toward him.

“Now that you’re all here,” Stoat said, trying not to let his voice shake, “we can begin.”


	6. The Great Prank War of 1944

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We're engaged."  
> "IN COMBAT!"

The Howling Commandos won’t get off their case, teasing them when they share a tent, making kissy noises whenever one of them brings the other food or shares a blanket or any one of the myriad things they do for each other without thinking. Until the day when, after they’ve set up camp and everyone’s settling down for the night, Steve and Bucky walk up to the campfire, Steve doing his best blush and Bucky practically draped over his side with a cocky grin. Steve gives the Commandos a shy smile and stutters out, “We’re engaged.”

Everyone’s eyes bug right out of their heads. For all the teasing, this is still the forties and no one was expecting - well,  _this._ Falsworth nearly drops the soup ladle in the fire.

And in that moment of silence before the whooping and hollering starts up, Bucky shouts out “In combat!” and starts pelting everyone with pinecones. Steve and Bucky have an entire  _satchel_ filled with pinecones,  _each,_  and they don’t let up until every last one has been thrown with great precision and accompanied by crows of triumph. The Commandos have to defend themselves with cooking pots and retaliate with whatever pebbles and loose bits of bark they find on the ground. No one stops laughing for hours, and no one even minds when there are pinecones in the soup.

Thus begins the Great Prank War of 1944. The Commandos still tell their grandkids about the time Jim and Peggy stole everyone’s clothes while they were skinny-dipping in the river by their camp, and of course that was the day when the troops they were waiting to intercept were half a day early. Long story short, the entire 105th got to write home and tell their friends they’d seen Captain America buck naked and on the run from his men, some of whom were gleefully belting out “The Star-Spangled Man With A Plan” at the top of their lungs, and the rest of whom were accusing him of pants theft.


	7. High Fantasy Lite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is technically fanfic of an article from The Toast. The article is entitled ["How To Tell If You Are In A High Fantasy Novel."](http://cheshirelibrary.tumblr.com/post/117535665882/how-to-tell-if-you-are-in-a-high-fantasy-novel) I felt quite inspired. Someday, hopefully, I'll be inspired enough to finish.

“Tieran!” my mother called from the kitchen. “Your porridge is getting cold!”

I hopped out of my room on one foot, wrestling with my shoe. The warm smell of baking bread wafted through our tiny house, mixed with the sharper scent of fresh porridge. I stumbled my way into the kitchen, where a spoon and a bowl of porridge were waiting for me on the table. “You’re going to be late for the Fair,” my mother said fondly. “Mel and Lissa will have to go on without you if you don’t hurry.”

I shook my head, shoveling porridge into my mouth as fast as I could. One advantage of being late to breakfast is that your porridge doesn’t burn its way down your throat. “Mel will wait,” I tried to say through a mouthful of porridge. It sounded like “Muhwuweh.”

“Whatever you say, dear,” Mother said. “Don’t forget to take the pieval charm with you, the blacksmith said he’d have it fixed for us by Sunday.”

“Yes, Mother.” I gulped down the last of my porridge, kissed my mother goodbye, and ran out the door, grabbing the charm off its hook by the front stoop as I passed it. It was a simple braid of copper, iron, and tin, not longer than my ring finger and with a loop at the top for hanging it by. Grandma said it was to ward off dark-walkers, but no one believed in dark-walkers anymore. The pieval was just a good-luck talisman, a sort of tradition in these parts. Most everyone in town had one like it by their front doors.

I tucked the pieval charm in the pocket of my skirt and raced down the path to the road, my sky-blue scarf tied around my waist and my long red braid of hair streaming behind me. The apple trees that lined the road were ablush with the fresh new leaves of spring. My feet kicked up dust as I ran down the road - we hadn’t had rain in several months. Everyone was starting to worry. According to Lissa, the town elders were going to have a meeting about it during the Fair.

I passed the thistle patch that marked the path to the river and rounded a bend in the road to find Mel and Lissa waiting for me. Mel was sitting on a tree stump while Lissa tapped her fingers impatiently on her arm. “It’s about time,” she said as I skidded to a halt in front of them. “We’ve been waiting here for hours.”

“It’s been less than ten minutes,” Mel said placidly. He stood and brushed off his trousers. “There’s no need to fuss. Tieran never misses the Fair, you know that. Besides, Nym won’t be there until noon anyway,” he added. “She has to help her father clean the ovens before they can go.”

Two spots of color appeared high on Lissa’s cheeks. She turned on her heel and flounced off toward town, leaving Mel and me to roll our eyes at each other and fall into step behind her. Lissa had been sighing over Nym, the baker’s daughter, since Midwinter, but she was far too proud to admit to anything so inelegant as human emotion.

With Lissa’s angry stalking to set the pace, we reached the Fair well before noon. Most of the vendors had already set up their booths, showing off their wares. All the craftsmen in the valley came to the Spring Fair, from carpenters to glassblowers to spellsingers, and even when you weren’t buying it was a delight to walk among the booths and admire the pretty baubles on display. There were always some traveling players, too, or a minstrel or bard. Mel was craning his head looking for them before we’d even reached the village green. He had his heart set on becoming a bard someday, though his parents had other plans for him.

The Fair was an excitement of bright colors and loud voices. The three of us dove in gleefully. Mel was looking for the minstrels, Lissa was looking for Nym, and I was looking to get lost in the rush of voices and people around me. Oh, and for a birthday gift for Grandma. It wasn’t long before we were all successful. Lissa found the baker’s booth, where Nym and her father were just starting to set up, and after a good five minutes it became obvious she wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. Mel and I ambled on, until the minstrels pranced into the center of the green and started playing. There were two flutes and a bagpipe. It was all very high-pitched. After a few songs, I left Mel enraptured by their music and went in search of somewhere less likely to cause me a headache.

I was considering a blown-glass bowl in a pretty blue spiral pattern for Grandma when I caught sight of the blacksmith’s booth only a few feet away from me. Abruptly I remembered the pieval charm in my pocket. The blacksmith, Jenner Mireback, was sitting on a wooden folding chair behind his booth, glowering in a general sort of way at everyone who passed by. 

He’d always scared me as a child, but I was sixteen now, practically an adult, and I refused to be cowed just because he glared a lot. “Hello, Master Mireback,” I said cheerfully as I reached his booth. He fixed his glower on me, and I faltered a bit. “Our pieval charm is a bit broken,” I said quickly, taking it out and slapping it down on the booth. “Mother said you could fix it by Sunday.”

Jenner Mireback regarded me balefully for a long moment. He definitely still made me nervous, despite my best efforts to be a mature adult. Maybe it was something about the beard. It was bushy and black, and went halfway down his chest in a great frizzy mat. His eyes looked particularly dark, set above that black beard. I forced myself to meet them and keep my smile light as I did. 

Finally he broke eye contact and leaned forward to peer at the pieval charm. It was undeniably coming apart. The copper wire was slipping slowly out of the braid, and the iron was getting rusty. He frowned at it. “What have you been doing with this thing?” he demanded. His voice was gruff and scratchy from the smoke of his forge. “I fixed this for you just last year.”

I shrugged. “Nothing. We figure squirrels have been getting at it.”

“Squirrels,” he grunted. It was a disparaging sort of grunt. I thought perhaps he did not believe squirrels could pick apart his craftsmanship. He picked up the charm and peered at it some more, holding it up so it would catch the light. “Squirrels,” he said again, shaking his head.

He looked up at me. “I’ll have this done tomorrow. Come by the forge at noon.”

“Thanks!” I said chirpily. He narrowed his eyes at me, and my smile dimmed despite my best efforts. I started to edge awkwardly away.

“Wait,” the blacksmith rumbled. “I need to see something.” He reached under the booth and seemed to rummage through a bag for a moment, and pulled out a shining silver ring set with a deep red jewel. “Put this on,” he said, shoving the ring at me.

I blinked at him. “What? I mean, this is too expensive, I couldn’t ever afford this, I--”

“It’s not for sale,” he said impatiently. “Put it on.”

I did as he said, slipping the ring gingerly onto my finger. It was surprisingly warm to the touch, as if it had been lying in the sun. The jewel looked unsettlingly large on my hand – I’d never worn any jewelry fancier than the simple bronze necklace Mother had gotten me for my twelfth birthday, and certainly nothing with any precious stones on it.

The ring flashed suddenly cold on my hand, and I cried out in surprise. The red jewel seemed to glow a little, then slowly turned a pale blue color. I gaped at it, then at the blacksmith, but Jenner Mireback was just peering at the indecisive jewel with the same frown of concentration he’d leveled at the pievald charm before. 

He reached under the booth again, and this time he pulled out a sword in a sword belt. “Take this,” he said in a quiet, urgent voice. “Go on, take it.” He shook the sword at me until I took it, gingerly, by the sheath. He glared at me until I buckled it around my waist. Then he gave me a searching sort of look, and said, “Listen very carefully. Someone will come for you, probably from the City. Go with them, but do not trust them. Take the sword; it is yours by birthright. Don’t let anyone else wield it in battle unless you trust them with your life.”

“What,” I said stupidly.

“I’m not finished,” the blacksmith snapped. “Take the ring, but don’t let anyone see it, especially if they have tattoos on their fingers. It will warn you and guide you. The land is rising, Tieran, as it has not done in a thousand years. The Old Ways are poised to return.” He paused to give me an appraising look, head to toe. I gawped at him, speechless with bafflement. He nodded once, brusquely, and said, “Keep your wits about you and remember what your grandmother’s taught you. Now run along; I see your friends are looking for you.” He jerked his chin over to the right, and I turned woodenly to look where he’d pointed. Mel and Lissa were approaching arm in arm, Lissa talking a mile a minute while Mel patted her arm consolingly. They caught sight of me and quickened their step.

I turned back to Jenner Mireback, but he was sitting on his folding chair with a hat over his eyes as if he were fast asleep. For a dissonant moment I wondered if I’d imagined the whole thing. But there was the ring on my finger, still unusually cold, and there was the sword buckled firmly at my waist. Before I could regain my senses enough to say something to the blacksmith, Mel and Lissa caught me up between them and swept me away, into the bustle of the Fair.


End file.
